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954. alistairconnor - 2/27/2009 2:23:34 PM "Then he threw me out. I broke in again a couple of nights later and stole a coffin. I also tried to set fire to the shop, but it didn't take.
"This was just after the revolution, in 1990. Things got pretty desperate at the orphanage. There literally was not enough to eat. I could have got more if I had consented to sexual favours, but I decided that, if it came to that, I would be better off to leave and become a prostitute. So I learned to steal instead.
"But I stayed at the orphanage, and finished high school. I was 16. Yes, I was a smart girl... Under the old regime, I could have attended university, but now there was no money for anything. The orphanage apprenticed me to a hairdresser.
"One day I happened to pass the undertaker's shop. I saw him through the window. He saw me, then fell to the floor, screaming in pain. That made me happy. I smiled and walked on.
"I came back another day. He saw me, and ran to the back of his shop. To hide from me. I wished he would fall and bump his head and... he did. I had discovered the Imperative effect.
"So I kept going back. I would stand outside the shop and make him do things. Anything that crossed my mind. Like the time I made him take off his pants and shit into a coffin." She smiled at the memory. "That attracted quite a crowd!"
"One day he beckoned me into the shop, and begged for mercy. He knew more about the Imperative effect than I did. To cut a long sordid story short : we made a deal. He agreed to pay money into my bank account, every month. Not very much, but enough to live on, and to attend university. We had to adjust for inflation several times, but it saw me through medical school. And it's still useful."
"You mean he's still paying?"
"I don't see why he shouldn't keep paying until he dies. Do you?" 955. alistairConnor - 2/27/2009 11:19:54 PM Hank sat on the toilet, trembling. A moment of choice had arrived.
He realised he'd never really made any choices. Last night, he had explored the possibility, but in the end he had gone with the flow of what he conceived as his manifest destiny. His mission had failed, but that was through no fault or decision of his own.
He felt that he had fallen through a sheet of ice and exploded into a new world; but, he realised, he had taken no responsibility for himself, for his actions. If Dumitra suggested they join the WHO, he would have gone along with that; if she had wanted him to stay with the Organisation, likewise. If she had wanted them to strike out on their own, the two of them against the world, like Bonnie and Clyde... he would have embraced that destiny, with joy.
And he said to himself : this is not how it should be. Dumitra is fragile, her moral compass is impaired. It is I who must decide for both of us what is right, what is fitting. She needs me, I must be strong and decisive for her.
So where does that leave us? he thought. Unexpectedly, I have a chance to resume my trajectory within the Organisation. There would be no reproach from anyone for the failed assassination. A new mission in Davos... Murder and mayhem among world leaders, that is an enticing prospect.
What about this WHO crowd? Can they genuinely advance the interests of vampires? They perceive themselves to be the good guys... but doesn't everybody? Will they forgive me for attempting to murder the girl? They will never trust me, that's for sure.
I could slip away now, take the car and go to Davos. And abandon Dumitra? Never. Strike that one.
I could take Dumitra with me. She would come. She would be a valuable resource for the Organisation. For the Cause... What is the Cause? What is the finality? The means are hateful, can the ends be unstained?
Not enough information. Impossible to make a definitive decision. Play for time. Play a role. Keep our options open. Go to Davos, via Geneva. Be a double agent. Tell no-one. Not even Dumitra? Not even Dumitra. 956. webfeet - 3/4/2009 4:42:22 PM Kronen, with his geeky charm is quite the sexual adventurer ...and this will doubtless be crucial to the plot. Doubtlessly.
Welcome back to The Me. I recently had the foggy and mildly ludicrous sensation of arriving in the Lyon airport at six am and realizing that I was at the germ, so to speak, of the flu-induced vampire chronicles. While the flu, I assume, is cured, the chronicles rage on, to all of our amusement.
After surviving our annual winter expedition to the alps in a house built for stunted montagnards who survived on potatoes and tartiflette for centuries, ergo the low-ceilings, and wooden beams that I bang into every now and then, I am back grace au dieu in New York. The home, in fact, was a grange at one time before beau-pere and belle-mere lovingly re-built the thing with the help of their amis, who all decided to buy homes beside them, like a soixante huitard colony de vacances. It is habitable, this alpine house of midgets, which I am forced to visit bi-annually for my children, la maison de famille. although it is far, far from being a Sheraton.
The house doesn't like me. And I don't like the house. Lodged in a cheerful attic where spiders, flies and bees hibernate through-out the winter, I have to descend a staircase so steep at two a.m. to use the w.c., you have to be an alpinist not to break your neck. I have these anxiety attacks when i wake in the middle of the night, and go through my own demented checklist before descending so that I won't stumble and kill myself on my way to the bathroom. And it's so cold at night, I go to bed dressed as the Taliban.
I wait, first, until I am fully concscious. Then I mentally rehearse the trajectory of my path: I rise, duck the wooden beam, then make the precarious descent in the darkness down the narrow steps, one by one. It's so dark, it's as if I'm blindfolded, and I hope that I make it down alive without freefalling and waking the whole house up.
Then it's down the chilly corridor to the water closet, which is the size of a pew, and as cold as a meatlocker. It has terrible vibe. Not just because it's the only toilet in a home that is usually shared by upward of six people, but because there is a rectangular window behind the toilet, and so that you always feel as if you're mooning the coyotes or god knows what horrible animals prowling outside, not to mention any weirdo that might be walking his dog or something at that still hour.
957. webfeet - 3/4/2009 4:42:35 PM On some days, while everyone is skiing, I sit at a desk underneath the sloping ceiling of the attic, and write like jack nicholson in The Shining. So, really, this is not at all what most people would describe as a fun ski vacation. Although in today's economy, I realize how privileged that sounds, but everyone carpets their own stairway to heaven or hell.
And I also create ficitonal in-laws to keep me company in my asylum. They're nice, easy-going people, like psychprof, perhaps, and his wife. Jack and Catherine. Catherine wears a flannel robe from LL Bean and makes pancakes in the morning, and Jack is erudite and witty and down to earth. we have funny, engaging discussions--without either one of them making a point to counter everything I say with the word "Non." I can't be wrong about everything, can I?
Once a long time ago, my father in law actually told me that anti-americanism didn't exist; it was an American invention. It was all in America's head. I have no energy anymore to refute these comments, because this is like my greyhound sejour. I have to do it twice a year and there is no point in getting mad and stonewalling people who bear genetic responsibility for the existence of my children. And I think at a certain point in adulthood, you reach a stage of maturity and don't feel the need to 'set the record straight' anymore and can just walk away sprinkling forgiveness over your shoulder, like Gandhi.
958. alistairconnor - 3/4/2009 5:06:07 PM Not coyotes, dear. Wolves, at a stretch. Foxes, quite likely.
I am still in the happy state of not having met my new [future] in-laws. This will end in June. I'm thinking of writing the script in advance, along the lines of a French remake of that film with Ben Stiller and Robt de Niro. 959. webfeet - 3/4/2009 9:21:23 PM Well, then you better lard your trip with a few casefuls of New Zealand pinot noir. Unbeknownst to BM, having never seen "Meet the Parents," she said nearly the same thing to me as Robert Deniro did to Ben Stiller. "Je te surveille, webfeet."
Once a few years ago, we brought les cousins CIA and FBI cats as a joke, and she took to wearing the CIA one; I nearly shat myself seeing her on the beach stalking me with it.
Oh, well. C'est la famille!
960. alistairconnor - 3/12/2009 1:59:34 PM After Courtney's account of Californian divorce, the phone rang.
It was Kronen, from New York. He would be arriving the following day. Albu turned on the speaker, and Kronen arranged to meet them at the CERN particle accelerator facility in the Geneva suburbs. "I will be coming directly from the airport. I have arranged for certain tests involving Courtney and Alistair."
He was up early, he explained, because he was going to be interviewed on breakfast television. "Some people criticise me for seeking celebrity, but you must understand : I work at the frontier between nuclear physics and cellular biology, it is very hard to get funding for my research because I don't fit into the normal categories. And publicity for my work may bring me to the attention of funders."
It turned out that the station he would be on was available on their cable TV, so they promised to watch him.
Alistair remarked to Sorin : "So, I suppose tomorrow they are going to tie us to titanium targets and bombard us with muons, gluons, leptons and hardons!"
Sorin smirked, and said "I think you mean hadrons."
Alistair replied, "Well in theory, it would be hadrons. But once they get us tied up, eh? Can we trust them?"
Sorin sighed. "You don't take all this very seriously, do you?"
Alistair reflected. "To me, this whole thing is science fiction. And I stopped taking science fiction seriously when I was fifteen. I loved it because it was full of really neat ideas. But I worked out that neat ideas are actually a dime a dozen, and that I was more interested in decent writing."
"So where does that leave us?" Sorin wondered.
"In need of a better script, perhaps?" Alistair ventured. 961. alistairConnor - 3/12/2009 11:55:24 PM Courtney suggested that they should arrange a demonstration of teleportation for the benefit of Dr Ayotunde, and especially, for Dr Kronen.
Sorin was in favour. Dr Ayotunde grinned hugely but offered no opinion. Dr Albu wavered. Alistair was strongly opposed. His ostensible reason was that it would be dangerous, and might attract unwanted attention. But he had at least two other reasons. For one thing, it would require getting up very early. And for another, Alistair was quite pleased with his current situation : they had matched his salary and accorded him generous living and travel expenses; he was in no hurry to see it all come to an ignominious end. Because he didn't believe in this teleportation lark. Not even a little bit.
The phone rang again : it was Halima. Albu made as if to turn on the speaker; then thought better of it, and transferred the call to his office.
When he came out, fifteen minutes later, he looked grim. He told them that there would be no teleportation demonstration. He explained about the arrival of Iancu, and of the murder attempt, without going into detail. And he avoided Sorin's eyes.
Ayotunde said : "We must warn this woman, Davidson, that she is a target! And we must warn Dr Kronen at once! These people may go after him too! He must avoid drawing their attention."
Albu called him at once, and implored him to cancel his TV appearance. 962. alistairConnor - 3/13/2009 1:50:29 AM Gustav Kronen was ready. He'd been through security, makeup, and a briefing from the production assistant : cues she will feed you, hooks you can hand back to her. Surprisingly, this fellow Robin seemed to have familiarised himself with Kronen's work; he felt little hope that the show's host, Sue Hanson, the latest star of the breakfast slot, would have taken the trouble to do so.
She had shaken his hand limply, given him one of those smouldering "let's have sex" looks that are the merest politeness in this high-flying New York milieu. And now she was on air, going through her opening patter, and he had ten minutes to go before his segment.
He found himself ruminating over his experience with Errin Davidson. The train trip had been quite exhilarating : they had been able to discuss their respective work in depth, free from uncomprehending students or journalists, and their intellectual excitement had spilled over into a natural intimacy. No trace remained of her rather stiff and formal professional manner; her girlish laughter came easily, and her awkward adolescent mannerisms charmed and excited Gustav. She had remembered about the bed-and-breakfast when the journey was almost over, and it was, she judged, too late to bother the lady at such an hour. Gustav took this as proof that she wanted him, that her offer of her spare bedroom was no mere politeness, but the pretext for an adventure they both desired.
Arrived at her charming cottage, Kronen took a shower then waited excitedly while Errin took hers. Wearing underpants and a carefully-adjusted half-open dressing gown, he preened himself before the mirror, then stood waiting outside the bathroom door. When he heard the shower stop, he waited a couple of seconds, then opened the door at exactly the same moment that she pulled aside the shower curtain.
And there she was, in all her splendour. Smallish, rather pointed breasts, with big, soft, orange nipples. Perfectly white, silky skin, lightly freckled. Broad hips, with a ginger tuft, much redder than her light auburn hair, not trimmed but naturally sparse; revealing a plump, well-rounded mound of Venus, deeply cleft.
He took in all this in an instant; and only then did he register the expression of shock and dismay on her face. He backed out of the room, babbling something about a toothbrush, and fled to the spare room.
The following morning at breakfast, Errin had been bright, cheery and efficient. Gustav had felt compelled to offer an apology for his vulgar misunderstanding; she stammered "Oh - let's not talk about it please", and they both blushed deeply.
Confounded Englishwomen, thought Gustav angrily. Why can't they show their sexual feelings simply, like the rest of humanity? It made him feel like he was fourteen all over again. 963. alistairConnor - 3/14/2009 10:50:15 AM [No reactions eh? I'm going to have to double down...] 964. wabbit - 3/14/2009 5:04:28 PM I'm following along, AC, though I confess that I'm a bit lost at this point. I've got a page up with the story not in posts, but maybe someone could put it into chapters or organize it? 965. magoseph - 3/14/2009 7:35:01 PM Have you received my E-mail, Wabbit? 966. wabbit - 3/14/2009 8:25:33 PM Just checked the spam folder and found it. Stupid Yahoo. Will reply right now. 967. alistairConnor - 3/16/2009 12:02:33 AM Lost! Well, that's useful feedback...
All you need to know about The Story So Far : (my version!)
A corporation of high-tech Californian vampires is plotting to take over the world, by controlling world leaders. Meanwhile, a scientific team is being assembled in Geneva to study vampires and associated phenomena of mind control and teleportation. They don't yet know about the plot, but logically they are going to thwart it.
Or not. We'll see when we get there. Logically the key is Iancu the assassin, he will have to decide where his loyalties lie. 968. alistairConnor - 3/16/2009 12:12:25 AM Kronen's phone vibrated. Damn, I should have switched it off, he thought. Seven minutes to go. He saw it was Albu, and decided to take the call.
"Albu, I can't talk, I'm about to go on air."
"You must not go on the show, Gustav! Your life is in danger! Errin Davidson's also!"
Albu quickly outlined what Hank had told Halima about his mission. "So if you draw attention to yourself and your work, you will naturally become a target too."
The continuity man signaled to him : two minutes. He thanked Albu and hung up. Well, he thought, they say that ridicule doesn't kill. We'll see if that's true. They think I am vain, pretentious, publicity-seeking? Let them watch this. They'll see that I know how to take one for the team. 969. wabbit - 3/16/2009 12:19:18 AM Sorry for not being more useful, AC. 970. alistairConnor - 3/16/2009 1:45:35 AM Sue had still not decided on how to handle this segment. She was intrigued by Kronen's positioning, mixing nuclear physics, biology and the occult; she would enjoy the challenge of bringing some understanding of these subjects to a wider audience. But she knew that only one in a hundred among her breakfast audience would have the interest or patience to follow her in picking her way through a difficult subject. Let's be generous : three or four in a hundred. Could she afford to bore the others? It would be so much easier to patronize him, cut off his laborious explanations, make him look a fool. Better ratings. Unless he was a really talented communicator, he wouldn't stand a chance with her. She got so sick of
serving up patsy questions to untouchable celebrities; she was legendary for being really savage, on occasion, with unknowns.
Still hesitating, she welcomed Kronen onto the show, getting up to reach over the coffee table to shake his hand. Taking care to lean forward, she made sure he got a good eyeful of her lace bra. Not so much for the effect it would have on him; it was more for the TV audience. That was one dirty little secret of her success; the audience didn't get to peek over Kronen's shoulder and leer at her tits, but they loved to watch her do that. Bless their perverted little hearts.
But actually, he didn't sneak a peek at all. They locked eyes during the handshake. And Sue knew instantly : Dr Gustav Kronen, I am going to fuck you. This was no theoretical or long-term intention; it was direct and immediate, and, she instinctively knew, shared; they would fuck that very morning. Or die in the attempt.
She felt a surge of exhilaration; an erotic charge, certainly, but intensified by joyful relief. It had been so long since she'd experienced that moment of truth. Not since, goodness, well before the baby. She had feared that that part of her was gone forever, a page turned. She felt tenderly grateful to this geeky German for bringing her back from the half-dead.
She could tell by the way he was squirming in his seat that he was getting an erection. And then, as he shifted position, God, did he flash it at her deliberately, or was he really as clumsy and awkward as he looks? That's quite some chubby... she instinctively calculated the angles; no, none of the cameras would have picked it up. But certainly, some of the ladies in the studio audience will have got a look. She herself was thoroughly wet. 971. alistairConnor - 3/16/2009 2:09:42 AM All of this was occupying only one minor channel of her multitasking mind. Meanwhile, the interview was going wildly off the rails. She fed him his cues, about vampires and nuclear physics, and he responded with hammed-up vampire impersonations from horror movies. In a cavernous Boris Karloff voice: "Come here my darlink, I vant to zuck your blood!"
There were isolated giggles and stifled shrieks of laughter from the studio audience. The floor manager and the warm-up guy were staring at each other in horror. There was not supposed to be any comedy segment in today's program; the audience was not cued up for it, and it could turn to chaos very quickly.
Sue made one last attempt to bring him back on track : Tell us about your theory of teleportation? "No no, wampires haff no need of zat : zey can fly!" and he got to his feet, wafting his arms up and down. The studio audience erupted in laughter; the floor manager was obliged to adapt, conducting without a score, indicating to the audience when to turn up the volume of laughter and when to cut it off.
It got better. Sue and Gustav were adapting too, improvising some genuinely witty banter. As she steered the segment to a close, she heard herself saying "Thank you Dr Kronen for a fascinating insight into your work. Please stick around, I'd like to talk to you after the show."
He got a huge round of applause as he left the set, and Sue welcomed the following guest : a famous dame patroness of the arts, whose financier husband had just declared bankruptcy. She had consented to discuss the issue of the coming crisis in arts funding, but was visibly brimming with self-pity as she reached the end of her hour in the sun.
-----------
Oh fun. Here was Ken, the show's director, come to tear strips off her. "Jesus Christ, Sue, what the hell possessed you to pull a stunt like that without telling anyone? Bringing in a comedian disguised as a scientist. You realise it could have turned to shit in a hundred different ways?"
They had never liked each other. He had been on the show forever, had disdained her in her years in menial tasks, had been a hard taskmaster when she had started hosting the show. It was only in recent months that she had unequivocally gained the upper hand, and she had not yet had the occasion to make him really feel it. She replied to him so quietly that none of the eager ears around them could make out the words, in a tone that sounded apologetic and conciliatory. "Listen, you little wanker, if I want to take risks on my show then I'll take them. The audience loved it, the ratings will be good. If you want to make a fuss about it, then I suggest that you will soon have the opportunity to expand your career horizons in a new environment. Clear?" 972. alistairConnor - 3/16/2009 2:31:46 AM She found Kronen, dazed and haggard, in front of a coffee at a table in the cafeteria. His face lit up when she arrived. She sat beside him and immediately put her hand on his cock. "Dr Kronen..."
"Please - call me Gustav", he said in a strangled voice.
"I'd like to invite you to brunch. Do you know New York well? I know a charming little restaurant in Brooklyn Heights."
She whistled up the car. He shuffled out of the studio in her wake, hunched over, clutching his clipboard in front of him.
As they settled into the back seat, the Chechnyan torturer looked at her enquiringly. "To Denny's", she said, dismissively. She was already busy with Kronen's flies. He bent across to kiss her, but she averted her face, obliging him to kiss her neck, which he did very competently, progressing to her shoulder. To avoid any awkward fumbling, she unhooked her bra herself. He rapidly unbuttoned her blouse and smoothly pushed the cups up, his hands barely touching her skin. Oh good, she thought, he's not a squeezer. And suddenly she had a violent need to have her breasts sucked. That was something she strictly forbade Jonas to do; they were the exclusive domain of Maximus, for as long as he needed them. And now, she was going to be unfaithful to both of them...
She laughed suddenly. These are my tits, this is my cunt. I will do what I want with them. 973. alistairConnor - 3/16/2009 3:47:30 AM But Gustav was no sucker, it seemed. He kissed the underside of her breasts in a rather perfunctory manner, and started working lower. Sue was carefully controlling her breathing to avoid any gasping or panting effect. Among the many vulgar behaviours she despised, noisy sex ranked highly.
Gustav removed her (shamefully humid) panties rather expertly, and peeled back her silk stockings to the knees. Quick, moist kisses of her abdomen and thighs made his intentions clear, and she opened her legs to allow his tongue to reach its goal.
A broad lengthwise sweep of the tongue forced an involuntary yelp out of Sue. Vexed with herself, she clenched her teeth and whimpered as he took the long, engorged lips into his mouth and sucked. She felt the orgasm rising and fought it. Too soon; everything must be under control, on schedule, on cue. But to her horror, she found that she could not prevent it, barely delay it. As it washed over her, she sought at least plausible deniability in silence, but made little sobbing noises in her throat.
Seizing the initiative, she sat up and pushed him backwards, bending over him to remove his trousers and underpants completely, so that she could fuss over his penis. That was a lesson she had learned early and had always served her well : you can make a man do anything you want, just take control of his joystick.
She nibbled at his testicles and licked the shaft a little bit, then took the head gently between her teeth and ... did nothing with it. She moved upwards, sweeping her breasts over his abdomen. Now it was Gustav's turn to sigh and moan. Her breasts had been oozing all morning, they were dribbling now. Climbing over him, she swung them up into his face. He nibbled and licked politely, but still did not suck. Well, she certainly wasn't going to beg him.
She sat on his balls, her vulva pressed against the base of his shaft. Who's in the driver's seat now honey? she thought. But despite her rich interior dialogue, they hadn't exchanged a word since the cafeteria.
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